My Life as A Death Guard
Chapter 413: After the Fight
[Macragge Daily Bulletin]
[The Fourteenth Legion, Death Guard, has successfully arrived in our system and engaged in thorough and in-depth discussions with the Lord of Macragge, Roboute Guilliman. The talks covered security and cultural matters concerning the Five Hundred Worlds of Ultramar.]
[Following the meeting, the two lords proceeded to the Ultramarines' training chambers for further friendly exchanges, demonstrating the profound bond between the Thirteenth Legion, the Ultramarines, and the Fourteenth Legion, the Death Guard.]
[Lord Guilliman stated that this meeting was a victorious meeting, a meeting that—]
. . .
In Guilliman's personal training hall, upon the dueling platform—
Mortarion let out a hoarse, rasping laugh. Using his scythe as a cane, he slowly approached Guilliman, who lay flat on his back, breathing heavily.
Both were in a sorry state, though neither bore serious wounds.
Mortarion drew closer, his eyes gleaming with undisguised schadenfreude.
"Wea—"
He did not finish the word. His strength finally gave out, and he toppled stiffly forward.
Guilliman rolled aside without expression, calmly listening to the dull crack of Mortarion's nose striking the floor.
"A draw," Guilliman said.
Even though they had sparred before, he still could not comprehend Mortarion's abyssal, bottomless stamina.
"A draw. Even if you wish to continue, I will not accept."
His tone was composed. Compared to the anger he had felt before the duel, he was far calmer now—perhaps simply because he was too exhausted to feel anything else.
After a tide of fury came only instinctive thought.
A battle with Mortarion would always be a war of attrition. Guilliman was now quite certain that "exhaust the enemy to death" was one of Mortarion's standard tactical options.
Mortarion's breathing rasped harshly as he attempted to push himself upright.
He should not have agreed to those previous sparring sessions. That blue-eyed bastard never stopped learning.
Had both of them not deliberately held back, Guilliman—having crossed blades with him multiple times now—might well have achieved a higher win rate.
"Very well," Mortarion muttered slowly.
"Who was it that issued the challenge this time?"
He swayed as he stood beneath the white lights at the top of the dueling platform, tall and gaunt like a reed.
Mortarion wobbled, retrieved his scythe first, then tilted his head and gave Guilliman a look of faint disdain.
Below the platform, Garro and Vorx stood with arms folded, silent. The other Ultramarines, however, looked on the verge of screaming.
Mortarion grabbed Guilliman with one hand and hauled him to his feet.
"Thank you," Guilliman said curtly.
Mortarion immediately released him and wiped his hand against the oil-stained haft of his scythe.
"You were the one who provoked me first."
Guilliman clenched his jaw. He raised a hand to signal to Gage that he was unharmed, already thinking about how to reassure the startled Lady Euten—and how to adjust Ultramar's transport routes under the current circumstances.
But in that moment earlier, he truly had felt a flare of inexplicable anger, even if it had now faded.
At Guilliman's words, Mortarion gave a dry chuckle, recalling something amusing.
"There's nothing more to say, idealist. Watch your internal affairs, the Death Guard is departing."
Though still fatigued, strength was already returning to him. Mortarion briskly donned his respirator and hood, preparing to leave.
"Wait," Guilliman said.
"I just received a brief message from Terra. Malcador is en route to Macragge."
Mortarion's hand paused midway to his hood.
Malcador? That damned psyker?
"When will he arrive?" Mortarion asked.
"I do not know," Guilliman replied. "Warp communications are unstable. The message from Malcador was incomplete. That is all we were able to receive."
He paused.
"And in receiving it, I lost the few remaining psykers who were still barely functional."
Guilliman continued, "I would prefer that you remain a while longer, Mortarion."
Emotionally, he would have preferred Mortarion as far away as possible. Rationally, however, Guilliman understood that two Primarchs were better than one.
…Once again, he lamented inwardly why the one who faced him was not Hades.
"Now that two Legions are present in Ultramar, we could absorb the human fleets thrown into disarray by the warp storms."
Guilliman swallowed and continued methodically, "Other sectors do not have a Primarch and Legion stationed within them. With the Astronomican extinguished and communications severed, there will undoubtedly be considerable unrest."
"That is their concern," Mortarion said flatly.
"And what is yours, Mortarion?" Guilliman countered.
Mortarion paused before replying,
"To find the origin of all this—and end it."
"You know where it began? And you possess the means to end it?"
Mortarion fell silent. Then his voice emerged through clenched teeth.
"…No."
Guilliman spread his arms slightly, raising a brow at his stubborn brother.
Mortarion took a slow breath.
"At the very least, the Death Guard should be marching toward a battlefield, not wasting time here."
"This place is peaceful. It is… well. It does not require us."
He caught the faint curl of a smile at Guilliman's lips and immediately decided to amend himself.
"Brother, it is precisely because you are stationed here that your strength can be put to proper use. Until the situation becomes clear, every ounce of force should be preserved in reserve, not squandered."
Mortarion thought briefly of the blood that had recently stained the interrogation chambers of the Death Guard.
He said nothing more.
Stepping down from the dueling platform, he felt the scales of decision waver.
At present, the Death Guard truly could not chart a clear course. It was a significant problem.
And… Guilliman had been correct about one thing.
Mortarion did not know what was happening.
If it's Malcador… Mortarion thought. That psyker would certainly know something. Hades had worked alongside Malcador before, and Malcador oversaw the logistics of the Sisters of Silence. If Mortarion wanted intelligence, he could not afford to miss him.
"It seems you truly desire an ally, Guilliman," Mortarion said.
He casually wrapped the bandages from his scythe's haft around a cut on his arm. To avoid injuries that might hinder future combat duties, both Primarchs had worn light armor and restrained themselves during the duel.
"Then next time, you should treat your ally properly instead of inviting him to the dueling arena immediately after he lands."
Mortarion moved toward the door. His path happened to take him past Euten, who was still holding a tray of tea and had been watching the two Primarchs fight with obvious tension.
Mortarion was quite certain he had just demonstrated to Lady Euten how well-suited her adopted son, Roboute Guilliman, was to rough handling.
Primarchs did not break easily. Guilliman had been coddled too much—
Rewind fifteen minutes: Mortarion had attempted to slam Guilliman's head into the floor, while Guilliman retaliated with a savage kick. Mortarion had coughed up blood, certain that the blue runt had displaced at least one of his organs.
Now Mortarion breathed evenly. He heard Guilliman's startled exclamation behind him.
Without hesitation, he stepped up to Euten and very naturally took one of the cups of tea from her tray.
Mortarion did not trouble himself over such trivialities as whom the tea had originally been intended for.
"Thank you, my lady," he said.
He walked off with the cup, removed his respirator, and took a sip.
"Until the Death Guard's Navigators chart a viable course, we will remain on Macragge briefly."
He lifted a hand in casual farewell. From behind, Guilliman could see only the Primarch-sized teacup in Mortarion's grasp.
"Well then," Mortarion added with a faintly mocking tone, "I thank the Lord of Macragge for his hospitality."
"Where are you going?!" Guilliman shouted angrily from behind him.
Mortarion smiled.
"To see Macragge."
The Lord of Death's soft voice drifted around the corner of the doorway.
Guilliman let out a quiet sigh. At this point, he felt nothing but regret—regret over his earlier lapse in control during the duel.
Still, there was some consolation.
Another brother would soon arrive.
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